Monthly Archive for February, 2010

(I make no promises that spoilers will not occur below. It is simply not possible to meaningfully discuss the film without them.)

There’s a much more interesting movie inside of “Shutter Island” that didn’t get made. The concrete basics of the story could have yielded endless fruit, but they are sabotaged by the script’s decision to reduce the entire film to a punch line. Martin Scorsese, working from a novel by Dennis Lehane, should be commended for undertaking cerebral horror, a genre rarely pursued and even more rarely done correctly. He eschews obvious scare tactics for slow burn dread, leaning heavily on atmosphere and tone to get under his audience’s skin; and since this is Marty, he does a pretty good job. The problem is, no matter how successfully he sinks his teeth into the suspense, he can’t get around the fact that “Shutter Island” doesn’t have a point of entry for the viewer. There is a protagonist, to be sure, but his emotional arc is told in such a way that we cannot really experience it with him. I wanted to love this film, but the sad truth is that I wasn’t invited to it.

The story is seemingly simple, although engaging: Teddy Daniels and Chuck Aule (Leonardo DiCaprio and Mark Ruffalo) are 1950s G-men on their way to Ashecliffe, a mental institution for only the most dangerous patients, to investigate a missing patient. Daniels is immediately suspicious of what goes on around the island, and leads the more reluctant Chuck on a journey to uncover the truth. Meanwhile, a hurricane is bearing down on the island, trapping our heroes in a situation that goes from bad to worse. It’s probably not a spoiler to tell you that things on Shutter Island are not as they appear, and this seemingly straightforward narrative soon begins interweaving elements as disparate as post traumatic stress disorder, World War II, and psychopharmacology.

Criticizing an existential thriller for being off-putting is a little like telling the rain not to be wet, but I must remain firm in my conviction that “Shutter Island’s” biggest problem is a lack of connection with the audience. The masterpieces of this genre—films like “The Shining” and “Jacob’s Ladder”—worked with similarly bleak material, but each evolved dynamic systems which kept the viewer oriented and engaged. “Ladder” relied on an extremely sympathetic central character as the logic in the world around him fell apart, but that probably wouldn’t fit this movie quite right. “The Shining” never presented an identifiable character, but it did draw on universal imagery for its ghosts, playing on human discomfort with elemental things like twins, blood, and unbroken stares. The result is that the ghosts in that film bothered us in the abstract and within the context of the story, making them very effectively unsettling. “Shutter Island” haltingly attempts to use both of these maneuvers, but ends up neither fish nor fowl.

Sometimes the movie tries to get sympathy for Teddy, but again, the structure prevents it. We have no perspective on him as a man; the movie does a poor job compensating for the mystery of Teddy’s past with a clear sense of personality. Right at the top of the second act, Scorsese seems to catch on to this problem and starts hammering us with hallucinogenic sequences. Some of these are quite beautifully constructed: the editing, cinematography and especially sound design (which never gets its due) go into overdrive and render a final product that is several steps above what was on the page. Nonetheless, there end up being too many of them, and they start getting repetitious and predictable. Even worse, they are built from highly context-specific images which we are not permitted to understand until late in the movie, and they have little resonance on their own. There is a sense that Daniels is having a completely different experience witnessing them than we are, and so we are yanked even farther away from him and his story. And, if I can be frank here, many of them are simply not that scary. Scorsese doesn’t quite have the temperament for the kind of sl0w-burn terror Kubrick so effortlessly pulled off in his masterpiece; he’s impatient with the suspense, constantly trying to climax the tension of the scene before he should.

Without question, there are strong elements to “Shutter Island,” the most significant being the performances. Scorsese is able to elicit top-level talent on his projects, and this one is no exception: DiCaprio, Ruffalo, Ben Kingsley, Max Von Sydow, Jackie Earle Haley, and Ted Levine are all on call, and without exception they are all great. DiCaprio gives one of his best and most tortured performances, Ruffalo conveys a man with a terrible weight on his shoulders, and Kingsley, as usual, makes even the slightest gesture interesting. These guys are working overtime to make this movie come to life, but they are swimming against the current. DiCaprio especially is stuck with a character who begins the movie on one note and never leaves it, which is an acting/directing/storytelling 101 mistake, and yet he gets about as much from the role as anyone could.

When it’s all said and done, “Shutter Island” is an interesting movie more than it is a good one. For fans of existential terror, it’s a temporary refreshment in a perpetual drought, but it has very little emotional impact and I can’t help but wish the order in which the story gives us information had been changed. More than any other thing, “Island” may stand as a monument to the fact that all the talent in the world cannot help you when basic fundamentals of story are not quite in the right place.

“Bound” (1996, Directed by The Wachowski Brothers)

(Again we come to a movie whose subject matter is not for everyone. You have been advised, and you read on at your own peril)

Before the Wachowski Brothers rose to international acclaim for creating one of the definitive science fiction movies of all time, they slammed together a little $4 million movie called “Bound,” ostensibly in order to prove they were capable directors. What they created is, in my opinion, the mecca of commercially minded, independent cinema. They chose a story they could tell with a small cast, in very few highly controllable locations, and as a result the measly sum they spent producing the picture is completely irrelevant. “Bound” never needs another cent, the movie is a complete victory on its own terms.

“Bound” is first and foremost a neo-Hitchcock thriller. It centers around Corky, a recently released female ex-convict who has moved into a barren apartment in order to fix its plumbing. She quickly discovers that she has been placed within a social circle that ex-convicts frequent, and by no coincidence is living next door to a mid-level mob boss named Caesar. Caesar has a live-in girlfriend named Violet, and within minutes of the film’s opening credits, Corky and Violet are romantically involved. Their relationship constitutes about the first twenty minutes of the movie, before a hefty sum of recently recovered mafia cash comes into play. It is at this point we learn that Corky did time for being a thief, and Violet is having second thoughts about her relationship with Caesar.

What? Oh come on, I didn’t use one of the good towels!

I hesitated to put “Bound” on this list for a long time, because it deals with sexuality in a way I don’t particularly enjoy. That Corky and Violet are lesbians isn’t really a problem for me, but the casual sex ethics that the film espouses are contrary to my nature. I have no problem liking a movie I disagree with, but I reserve the right to deny it entrance to the hallowed halls of my esteem. Why, then, does “Bound” get away with it? Two reasons. First of all, because literally every other thing about the movie is that good. Secondly, noir. “Bound” is a noir, and by definition one of that genre’s most defining characteristics is unsympathetic protagonists. Unlike many other breeds of story, hard-boiled narratives do not rest on or even seek your approval of their heroes. For this reason, I am able to keep “Bound” from being irreparably damaged in my mind. Yes, the movie’s leads get all preachy about the wonderful (and completely $%*#ing imaginary I might add) world of recreational intercourse, but they’re anti-heroes anyway. The whole movie is about them teaming up to steal dirty money from the mafia, why would I assume these were moral, upright women? If they actually existed, I can buy that this is how they’d think.

Anyway, let’s get back to what makes this movie so great. After the somewhat laborious opening stretch, “Bound” kicks into high-gear with a nonstop barrage of thrills and excitement. The writing at play here is not good, it’s masterful; it understands the unpredictability of the human mind. Much of the film is centered around detailing complex plans, each of which seems to be perfect in the abstract, but when let loose into the wild, real human reactions throw everything out the window. If the girls want to evoke anger from a certain person, they are likely to succeed at doing it, but how sure are they about what that emotion will cause?

The central theme—and the primary plot motivator—of the movie is the fundamental mysteriousness of human nature, and how elusive and difficult it is to really know a person or be able to anticipate them. Violet has been in a relationship with Caesar much of her adult life, and yet he has no idea she’s a lesbian, and she is beginning to see a side of him she never knew of before. Corky was locked up, we discover, because a partner whom she thought she could trust betrayed her. Violet claims to want her help, but it is just as possible that she is using an outsider for her own purposes. (SPOILER. I KNOW MANY OF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THIS MOVIE, PLEASE DON’T RUIN IT) The film’s entire climax centers around Caesar trying to understand Violet’s behavior, culminating with her holding him at gunpoint, and he assuring her that she will not fire. Her reply, and the film’s basic message, is “Caesar, you don’t know s**t.” (SPOILER OVER) Over and over, we see “Bound” fixated on the beguiling ambiguity of human motivations. We can never really know one another, we can never really be sure what those closest to us might do.

If I was you, I would’ve shot me the night I came home with the money. But you didn’t.

And then there’s Caesar, my favorite character in the film, expertly portrayed by the indomitable Joe Pantoliano. Whatever plans Corky and Violet have, they all rest on being able to anticipate this one man. It should be a cakewalk, Violet has known him for years, and yet what makes “Bound” such a tour de force is the ways in which his reactions are so unexpected, and so logical. We are breathless as each frame passes, wincing as the machinations of the girls’ plans gently go wrong.

In the hands of almost any other writer, Caesar would have been a flat villain, but the brothers Wachowski turn him into a real, tactile person. He functions wonderfully as an antagonist, but I suspect he plays far more sympathetically than the script ever intended, because Pantoliano imbues him with such a sense of personality. He is loyal to his superiors, he can be counted on, he is reliable. We understand implicitly that his love for Violet is genuine, and—perhaps more tragically—that he trusts her deeply. He confides in her, depends on her, and likes her as a person. Certainly he expects a certain docile contentment from his lady, but that does not diminish his sincere affection. He is also relatively fair-minded, preferring thought and reason to violence, unlike his brutal and moronic colleague Johnnie Marzzone. Notice here an interesting tactic: the script introduces Johnnie, a thuggish moron who is in every way Caesar’s opposite, at about the midway point. This spoiled brat’s only interests seem to be trying to bed Violet and inflicting physical pain on others. He is beyond sympathy, and Caesar’s revulsion at everything about him makes us identify much more with him. It seems a strange move to deliberately exonerate your primary antagonist in such a way, most writers would do everything they could to make Caesar the meanest thug who ever lived. But that would simply be a less interesting movie. Instead, he is a real character with actual feelings, and betraying him is not so easy. It is perhaps “Bound’s” greatest victory.

You know what the difference is between you and me, Violet? Me neither.

And then of course, there are the technical credits. The marvelously talented Bill Pope shot the picture, and he makes each frame absolutely simmer with whiskey golds, vodka silvers, and oil blacks. In my opinion, this and “The Matrix” are his masterpieces. Don Davis contributes a wonderful score, always layered in the background and building the tension; his use of piano is especially deft. And the Wachowskis direct their actors with the comfort of old salts, eliciting winning performances from Gina Gershon and Jennifer Tilly, both of whom have floundered horribly in other pictures. Every piece of the movie moves together and works, making the whole thing look bizarrely easy.

The story goes that Warner Brothers saw “Bound” just after they had undertaken a horrible remake of “Diabolique” (we may see the original on this list), which was of a similar genre. They immediately chastised themselves for spending three times as much money to make a film that wasn’t half as sexy, energetic or enjoyable as “Bound.” After that, the prospect of these guys directing their magnum opus—a little science fiction flick called “The Matrix”—became a lot more appealing. The rest, as they say, is history.

Ronin (1998, Directed by John Frankenheimer)

(I’m also going to start randomly inserting great quotes from the movies. It’ll be cool)

Of course I’m scared, you think I’m reluctant because I’m happy?

I have a clear memory of the first time I heard of “Ronin.” I wasn’t very old, probably in middle school, and I was sitting in a barber shop waiting for a haircut. I was reading People magazine—a mistake I have rarely repeated—and they reviewed it in their “Movies” section. The production photo they chose had Robert De Niro shouldering a massive automatic weapon next to a destroyed BMW, blowing the hell out of a European cafe. Up until that point, my cinematic diet had been largely prepared by Jerry Bruckheimer, and this to me was so…different. I seem to recall that the review boiled down to a simple sentence: “A thinking man’s thriller.”

A thinking man’s thriller.

At that age, I don’t know if the concept had occurred to me. I love my family, but it was not a cinematic household; we all liked movies, we all watched movies, but there was no one amongst us at the time whom I would fairly call a film buff. I was fortunate in that my family were all quite discerning film goers, they had an acute sense of what was good and balked at poor quality, but no one was sitting me down with a copy of “400 Blows” and telling me I had to watch it. So when People magazine came along and told me about a thriller with a brain, I knew that I had to see what such a film would be like. My desire was furthered by a gorgeous cardboard display propped up at my local movie theater, each actor in a large ensemble given their own square cut-out. I remember Jonathan Pryce, his eyes fixed over my head, looking focused and determined; Natascha McElhone, whom my sister referred to as “a prettier Uma Thurman” (I think they’re both pretty), glancing over her shoulder, looking tough and wounded at the same time. And De Niro. Even before watching the films that made him who he was, I understood this man’s power, his gravitas. He was a god, I could sense that the American moviegoer had already enjoyed a long relationship with him before I arrived. I was entranced. I had to see “Ronin.”

Of course, it was rated R, so that did not happen. When it finally arrived on VHS, I managed to make a compelling case to my father that this was a “soft R.” Probably one too many F-bombs, but definitely no sex scenes or gruesome fatalities. After examining the cassette, turning it over in his hand and reading the back (in that way that only fathers can do), he shrugged and relented. I now know that my father’s fondness for old classics like “The French Connection” probably hurried him in this decision, and I’m grateful for that. When I got the movie home and put it in my VCR, I was so excited I could barely sit still. A thinking man’s thriller.

I’m sure it would be a more interesting story to tell you that I was disappointed by what I saw, but instead I was blown away. From the opening line of dialog, I never understood a single thing that transpired on the screen. Sean Bean’s Spencer asks De Niro’s Sam: “You ever kill anybody?” Sam shrugs and replies, “I hurt somebody’s feelings once.” What in the hell did that mean? Jean Reno’s Vincent gives Sam a cigarette. Sam accepts, then asks: “You labor or management?” Vincent chuckles, “If I was management, I wouldn’t have given you a cigarette.” They smirk. Huh? What are these people talking about? And then the worst one was the ambush scene. Oh, how I puzzled over the ambush scene. (It’s the very beginning of the clip below)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDD_C1LTcwI&feature=related

…But…what? What on Earth just happened? Something…bad? I don’t get it (I get it now, no explanations in the comments section please). And yet in a strange way, I liked that fact. I think there were two reasons: firstly, because I was growing up in a house full of older people, and I got quite used to not understanding what was transpiring around me. Second, it didn’t seem random, everything seemed to be communicating information, I just couldn’t put together exactly what that information was. And I found that ambiguity, that sense of a puzzle to be penetrated, utterly fascinating. I’m always intrigued by shorthand, things that can go unsaid between people within certain circles, and perhaps I covet that knowledge above all other types.

Whatever the case, this was certainly something new. The rhythm of the dialog was, shall we say, a little different from “Armageddon.” And then came the action scenes. Holy mercy, the action scenes. I had watched people chase each other in cars before, but I had never noticed that most sequences are cut in such a way as to confuse, mislead, and downplay. Truth be told, the average action movie budget is trying to cut corners wherever possible, so the so-called “chase” you’re being sold on is usually two cars going 30 mph down an open road. I immediately understood that “Ronin” was different. The edit was elegant, there was a breath before each cut, I was meant to really see what the hell was going on. I was genuinely on edge throughout the whole scene, a feeling that was completely new to me.

You’re great in the locker room, pal, and your reflexes might die hard, but you’re weak when you put your spikes on.

“Ronin” also introduced the concept of a MacGuffin to me, by distilling it to its purest form. The plot centers around several groups of armed criminals chasing after a mysterious briefcase (actually it’s a case for ice skates, but that’s neither here nor there) which is so valuable that anyone will do anything to get it. The catch is—and I have to admit I was so absorbed in the story that I didn’t notice this the first time—that we never find out what’s in the case. It’s in moves like this that “Ronin” elevates itself, these little touches of class that are so unheard of in action films. I was beguiled endlessly by this open-ended technique, and quickly realized that by never revealing its contents, the case became more valuable. It became a thing to quest after, an object worth possessing at any cost, a plot device Hitchcock dubbed “the MacGuffin.”

When I watch “Ronin” now, I am still enthralled by its every nuance. I understand the tiny rhythms of the script, and am even more amazed that an action film with such an art house style ever got produced. The car chases are, for my money, still the best ever committed to celluloid, period. I’ve come to learn a great deal about how they were filmed, and director John Frankenheimer’s methods—the emphasis on real speed, refusal to use green screen or camera tricks, the fidelity to authentic engine noise—have remained a benchmark for the discerning enthusiast. I warn you that repeat viewing of the chases in “Ronin” will ruin garbage like “Gone in Sixty Seconds” for you, because your eye will learn what a car going 90 mph actually looks like; how it handles, the way inertia whacks the frame when it takes too hard a turn, and the furious gallop of the tires when the gas is hammered to the floor. If you’re going to do an action scene, you should make something out of it. “Ronin” turns the car chase into an art form.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DlgorBs7Q0w&feature=related (Wait for the chase, it is worth it)

The more films I see, the more I realize how rare “Ronin” is. Hollywood doesn’t believe in movies like this anymore: the MTV generation wants whiz-bang excuses to sell toys that overstuff their brief running times with sex and mindless violence. Some critics derisively call this “video game” style, but I’m insulted by that term, and I suspect the people who use it never played a video game. God knows the folks who made “Bioshock” and “Halo 3″ have a far keener understanding of pacing and development than these crass jerks who pump out stupid action movies ever will. Rather than look down on gamers, Hollywood could stand to learn something from them. But I digress.

What happened to movies like this, Dear Reader? Watching “Ronin” feels like having a sip of fine cognac after being forced to subsist on a diet of fruit roll ups and Tang. What happened to the thinking man’s thriller? I cherish movies with relatively few action scenes, because when the story is paced correctly, those moments end up being more valuable than the garbage that gets thrown at you by hacks who should stick to music videos. When I go to see an action movie, I still want to see a freaking movie. I want to know some characters, and relate to their struggles, and ponder the consequences of their actions. It’s an open secret that this movie was scripted by David Mamet, and his signature touch adds so much weight to the proceedings.

Frankenheimer presents here a slower picture, an old-school thrill ride that builds steadily up to a much smaller number of action scenes, each one carried off with loving precision. The sad irony is, for all the former’s desperation to maintain a constant climax, they end up being far more boring pictures. “Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen” isn’t half as exciting as “Ronin,” even though it cost three times as much to produce. You cannot buy excitement from an audience, you must earn it. It doesn’t matter how many pyramids you blow up, or weapons you unleash, or monuments you destroy; we will always get more excited when story and pacing are implemented. When you have our hearts and our minds, we give endlessly to the picture, volunteering our sincerest hopes and deepest fears. A picture like “Ronin” is about trusting the audience, respecting their intelligence, and offering them a refined, classy experience.

And it’s about driving some hot cars so fast they melt your face off.

You understand that there is something outside yourself that must be served. And when that need is gone, when belief has died, what are you but a man without a master?

PS: If you want to see a real thriller, the way they used to be made, jump to the 5:00 mark on this clip. This scene cost a fraction of what they spent to make “GI Joe: The Rise of Cobra,” and yet I give you my word you will be more nervous, apprehensive, terrified, and then relieved than you would be in twelve of the stupid blockbusters that pass for entertainment these days.

If you dare…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0XJunOAGgs&feature=related

(Starting now, I’m going to provide YouTube links to clips of the movies that I like. That’ll be fun)

23. Primer (2004, Written and Directed by Shane Carruth)

It is crucially important to me that you understand something about this list, Dear Reader: it is not a compilation of the 25 most perfect films I have ever seen. Flaws or potential flaws are a part of the arts, but never are they more inevitable than in film. Movie making is an extraordinarily bizarre process: unlike theater, you’re totally disconnected from your audience and cannot modify your performance to their reactions; you must compose in an isolation chamber, and then release the naive monster of your creation into a cold world. The script you write must be brought to life by dozens of actors and technicians, all of whom will (intentionally or not) change the thing they are making along the way. And perhaps most troubling of all, what film making sets out to do is fundamentally absurd: we capture a scene from three or four different angles and ask you to believe that cuts between them are instantaneous, but somehow we are never able to keep God from meddling with our canvas. Whole departments strive to monitor each actor’s hair do, their clothes, their position on the screen, and then the simplest discontinuity reveals us for the charlatans we are. If the biggest flaw in a scene is that a cigarette magically appears and disappears from an actor’s mouth—something that would be ludicrous in any other art form trying to be realistic—than we count ourselves as lucky. Film simply does not permit perfectionism (at least not live action film), you cannot control your canvas with the iron authority of a novel.

“Primer” is, by some standards, the most imperfect movie on this list. Although a huge hit at Sundance, there is a sizable body of detractors who insist this movie is a mess, and they are not altogether wrong. It’s made for under ten grand and looks like it, a few scenes demonstrably suffer from a lack of financial resources to sell crucial plot elements. It can’t be bothered by exposition, and although the main characters have an arc, its hardly the strict definition of dramatically satisfying. To call its third act incomprehensible is an insult to incomprehensible things. This is not a nice, clean, neat movie.

But it’s an absolutely stunning one anyway.

“Primer” is the simple story of two young entrepreneurial engineers, toiling away in their garages, who one day invent something they cannot handle. The first act is a loving rendering of that moment of discovery, expressing every little event, every twinge of emotion, that builds up to something no man on Earth is prepared for. The second act consists of these two men employing their new device, trying to understand it, maybe even testing philosophies about its use and purpose in the world. They are fumbling awkwardly with Prometheus’ fire. The third act is a jumble of plot elements (which have been helpfully sorted out by a color graph on Wikipedia), but it doesn’t matter, because what it means is perfectly clear: the inevitable descent into madness. Abe and Aaron—those are their names—do not actually go crazy, that would be the kind of cheap out that “Donnie Darko” employs. They go human. Their destructive behavior is completely rational, in fact some of it is almost common sense. They evaluate an extraordinary situation, and move to systematically reduce risk and elevate likelihood of safety and security; they don’t even lust for power or money, for heaven’s sake. But a film like “Primer” forces you to acknowledge how primitive mankind’s view of reality is. We simply do not have the perspective to handle such a situation.

“Primer” is a revelation to me. It is the most naturalistic film I have ever seen, aside from several European movies that sucked. There is no “dialog” in the traditional sense (except for a mildly crummy voice over), no one makes speeches and then waits for their next line. Aaron (portrayed by writer/director Carruth) and Abe (David Sullivan) have an interchange that is effortless, the actors fool us into thinking these men have worked together for years. When they talk and argue, their conversations are full of wrinkles and arhythmic pulses that are so authentic it’s actually uncomfortable. The suspension of disbelief that results is unfair, allowing “Primer” to get away with out-and-out absurdities. No matter what happens, or how lost we get, these two lead actors are so damned convincing that we cannot make ourselves stop believing. It must be real.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPflrB1jRq8&feature=related

(For one of the best moments in the movie, skip to about the 6:00 mark on the video above)

I cannot imagine the bravery it would have taken to submit this thing, in the form it currently exists, for the world to watch. Its tone is punishing, unforgiving: nothing is ever explained to the audience, you are expected to keep up or shut up. Information washes over you faster than you can process it. Millions of Americans, I think, would not sit through ten minutes of this thing, because it is not our custom in Western storytelling to act as if the audience is truly not there. I’ve seen and heard about countless frustrated sci-fi fans squinting angrily at this movie and then snapping it off. It’s their loss.

Watching “Primer” successfully requires a willingness to release control, like putting your hands in the air on a roller coaster. If you try to consciously process what’s happening, the movie will keep moving past you. But if you simply watch, and listen, and absorb, the movie will begin communicating vast amounts of information on the subconscious level. The details will disappear and all that will be left is an authentic sense that you are a part of something, that you are seeing the most secret, dangerous discovery in the history of science. Like “Blade Runner” and “2001: A Space Odyssey,” “Primer” is about moods, emotions, images, and (above all) ideas. It is a philosophical encounter with your eyes, meant to be processed below your rational thought. Watching it is hypnotic.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2dfaVQFgWs4&feature=related

The movie’s practical relevance in our world is obvious. The conditions it depicts are identical to those in which the personal computer was created. Labs and white coats are no longer required to push the boundaries of science. As technology democratizes information, we are forced to contend with the fact that anyone with enough drive could roll up their sleeves and alter world history. Even thirty years ago, an audience might have scoffed at “Primer,” but no one would dare do so now. History has taught us too much.

What this film is ultimately about is not “man pushes science too far” (a frankly overplayed theme), but simply “man pushes himself too far.” Abe and Aaron get a good enough view of the reality of time for it to tear down their lives as they know it. Darren Aaronofsky’s masterful “Pi: Faith in Chaos” is this film’s brother in that respect: both contend with low-income, high intelligence individuals whose lonely lifestyles drive them into the arms of the unknown while the world isn’t watching. But whereas “Pi” is a vicious psychological thriller, “Primer” is a science fiction odyssey; a lyrical visual piece about how dim the light of our understanding is in the darkness of reality.

24. The Passion of the Christ (2004, Directed by Mel Gibson)

A controversial movie in all the best ways, “The Passion of the Christ” is one of the most unique pieces of American film making ever. Gibson’s legacy as an actor is debatable to me; he’s unquestionably talented, but he brings few new ideas to his craft. As a director, however, he has been a consistent trailblazer, fusing the daring subject matter of independent cinema with the high-budget, high-visibility mainstream. “Braveheart” was arguably a warm-up lap, more conventional than his later work, but I dare you to find another actor who so gracefully made the leap into the director’s chair (we’ll ignore “The Man Without a Face” for now). He took on sweeping battle scenes, intimate romance, and political intrigue, and by any reasonable standard aced it. Plus, he brought a distinctive style to the action film, merging the sweeping grandiosity of David Lean with the bloody grit of Peckinpah. Traditionally, a visceral movie is also quite cynical, maybe to offer the audience some emotional protection, but Gibson charges in with both hands, compromising neither sentimentality nor carnage. It doesn’t sound like an appealing mix, but he chooses his stories carefully, creating movies that are suited to both. He looks right into the eyes of violence and refuses to flinch or fall back on cynicism to try and soften the blow. It is what it is.

He has directed four movies so far, and three of them have been masterpieces, but the crown jewel is also his best-known and most controversial work, “The Passion of the Christ.” Dogged by ridiculous charges of anti-Semitism, usually by people who couldn’t bother to actually watch the damned thing, “The Passion” pulls quite literally from all four gospels to create the film equivalent of an epic poem. Its beats and structure are classical, its plot is not comparable to 90% of Western cinema, but it speaks with brutal clarity that transcends genres. This is one of the most difficult types of films to make, and rarely has it been accomplished so successfully.

Although “The Passion” has a Scriptural debt to the Gospels (John in particular), the movie that I think it owes the most to is “2001: A Space Odyssey.” Both are films that seek to escape the conventional, character-arc based plot structures that dominate Western fiction. They are designed as experiences, sustained moments of philosophical inquiry meant to elicit extreme (and almost unpleasant) waves of emotion. And they are also both profoundly filmic; reading the script for either would get you nowhere near the experience of the movie (you’ll hear me say that a lot on this list).

“The Passion” is strangely at odds with reality: its depiction of Roman culture, slavish adherence to ancient dialects, and refusal to stock Jerusalem full of white people like everyone else, make it a uniquely sharp view of history. And yet its pace and tone are deliberately surreal: its use of music, exaggerated lighting, slow motion, and dramatic hyperbole land it squarely in the realm of dream-like (or nightmarish). This is not a documentary-style film. I believe the events it depicts to be historical fact, but I do not consider the movie even slightly “realistic.” Were I to go back in time, this is not how the events would look, and that is one of the highest compliments you can pay to the film. Gibson is not content to roll the camera on a blank reading from the King James, and the movies that have done that are mostly forgotten. Instead, he dips the story in myth and hyperbole, elevating Jesus from a suffering man to a unified Godhead carrying the weight of sin on His back. The story isn’t particularly concerned with Christ Himself, but with the people around Him, and how His sufferings serve to reflect the content of their souls.

Of course, no discussion of “The Passion” is complete without acknowledging that the film is hugely unpopular in some circles. It’s not a coincidence that its astronomical box office success has been followed with almost no imitators of any kind, because like the success of Tyler Perry, Hollywood liberal culture simply doesn’t want to hear it. They saw the numbers like everyone else, but they have elected to plug their ears and sing “lalala.” Most people I know in the film community have open contempt for the picture, either because of its honest spirituality, its unrelenting violence, or personal problems with Gibson himself. I find these reactions to be defensive and culturally motivated, built from negative associations with Christianity and Mel Gibson, not an intelligent discourse on the content of the picture. The movie makes a lot of people uncomfortable simply by existing, which is a sign that it’s probably doing something right. “The Passion” has become some kind of symbolic battleground, a target to take aim at, and even though that’s a kind of compliment, it’s frustrating when one tries to make a case for its value as a piece of art.

And art it is. Every previous attempt to depict Jesus on celluloid looks hopelessly flaccid by comparison. Scorsese tried admirably to personalize Christ, but aside from a breathtaking climax that really should have been a short film of its own, the rest of the movie creates a man that simply would not warrant the legendary status Jesus has achieved. “The Passion” avoids trying to make a Western-style character of Christ, He’s a force of nature more than anything else, and for this reason His mystique and power remain intact. We look at Him and sense that He’s playing every situation close to the chest, like His view of what’s happening is unique from ours. Meanwhile, His disciples struggle with betrayal and cowardice and His movement falls apart around Him, leaving some dejected and some furious. With every blow He takes, the magic and meaning of the words He convinced so many to believe is destroyed. The hard, cold reality of Roman occupation has won again, and seeing how each disciple handles this crisis of faith reveals the deepest parts of their humanity. The two Marys are the only ones who never lose hope; their grief is personal, the death of the message is beside the point, they are trying to weep for Christ the man. But Jesus won’t let them, He is distant from their sorrow, because a man is simply not the totality of what He is. They are mourning an incomplete version of the truth.

It’s relevant to notice that the Resurrection, which is the most important part of the Christ story, is saved for a single shot at the very end. It’s bizarre to think of a movie about Jesus where His conquering of death is shoehorned in such a way, but hope is not the subject of this movie. “The Passion” is about the victories we win that we cannot feel, the blows we strike against evil that sting us as much as our target. Not even Jesus can elevate His perspective above the suffering He is enduring; He must constantly ready His heart for it, and He comes desperately close to breaking several times. His story arc is a protracted fight for survival, to cherish and retain the soul as the body is scourged. Jim Caviezel’s selfless performance shows us every step of the battle: sometimes He takes the pain, sometimes the pain takes Him. What is that part of Him, we wonder, that endures even as His body fails? What in this man makes Him push forward when every fiber of His being has failed? What is He if not His body? These are questions we may all ask of ourselves, because in our better moments, we too can violate the walls of our corporeal existence. It is in these moments that Jesus is paradoxically the most divine and the most human.

Like “Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance,” “The Passion” should not be viewed by everyone. It is a harsh experience to put it mildly, probably the most horrific thing I have ever watched. But the singular achievement of Gibson’s masterpiece is its ability to use incredibly old story techniques to find a visual language for Christian philosophy. There’s a place for Cecil B. Demille, don’t get me wrong, but the Bible has thus far rarely been effectively translated into an American movie. Perhaps this is because the Bible refutes many basic storytelling conventions, relying on a more surreal and subconscious form of storytelling that thrives on being vague. Or perhaps it’s because so few filmmakers set out with the real intention of doing the Book any credit. Mel Gibson is an exception to that rule: he set out to make a Christian movie about sin and death, and he succeeded.